


Mach Schau

by aceonthebass



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Hamburg Era, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-13
Updated: 2008-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-22 18:18:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11972994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceonthebass/pseuds/aceonthebass
Summary: Just another night in Hamburg.





	Mach Schau

_“This fellow there, he used to say, you know, you’ve got to make a show for the people. And he used to come up every night shouting ‘Mach schau!’ So we used to mach schau, and John used to dance around like a gorilla and we’d all . . . you know, knock our heads together and things like that.”_  
—George Harrison  
      
Pete let out a tired breath, then tossed back the last of his free beer. With the mixture of dread and resignation that he thought soldiers must feel when marching into battle, he collected his drumsticks and slouched up to join the rest of the group onstage. It was early in the night, no later than 9, but John and Paul were already long gone on pills. It was harder to tell with George, whose scowl stayed in place regardless of his level of inebriation. Actually, it might be unfair to say that John and Paul were _already_ gone; for all he knew, they’d never come down from last night. Pete wouldn’t know, having gone to Anja’s after the set. Stu was at Astrid’s for the night, so Paul had gleefully taken over the bass.  
  
As he headed across the tiny stage toward his drums, Pete was sprung upon from the side by John, who slung a leather-clad arm around his shoulders, and yelled enthusiastically:   
  
“Pete, Peter, Petey, my boy! Here to join us at last, eh? And how _are_ you on this fine evening? Ready and willing for another exciting turn as dancing bear in this never-ending circus?” Turning away from Pete to a heckler in the crowd: “FUCK YOU TOO, YOU NAZI BASTARD!”  
  
John could be unpredictable on the pills, which wasn’t to say that he was any more predictable off them. Pete gathered that his absence from the first few hours of their shift had been noticed, but not worried over. This made him wonder: what if, one day soon, he just didn’t show up at all? Slept the night through like a normal person, and walked down the street in the sunshine in the morning? What if he just went home?  
  
Paul, returning from a brief trip in the back to get more pills from Mutti, popped up next to Pete with a bit of a smirk on his lips, as if he’d caught him doing something naughty. For all he took less of them than George, and certainly less than John, the pills affected Paul strangely. His eyes were wet and glittery under the dim lights.   
  
“Good timing, Pete,” he said, in a voice that said something rather less generous. “Rory’s drummer was filling in, he’s only just left.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” muttered Pete, feeling those eyes boring into the side of his face. “I’m here, aren’t I?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Paul. “Yeah, you are.” He continued to stare, and Pete quickly grew uncomfortable. Although God knows they’d never really wanted him here in the first place, so why should he give a fuck about showing up on time, anyway?  
  
“So, what’re we doing, then?” he said finally.   
  
“Long Tall Sally, Besame Mucho, and then into What’d I Say for as long as we can keep it up,” replied Paul promptly, already turning away.  
  
“Bit hard on your voice, eh?”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry about me, Pete. I’ll be good for a lot more than that. Dunno how you’re gonna keep up, though,” Paul said, with a twist of his lip that was almost a sneer. Pete ignored it.   
  
“Yeah, all right, let’s go.” He sat down and pulled off the hated leather jacket, tossing it on the beer-sticky floor beside him. In front, Paul, John and George looked more or less ready, if not exactly waiting . . . but no, they’d already started, somehow miraculously all together, although he’d seen no signal pass between them, and he was left to catch up as best he could.   
  
Same as every other night.  
  
It was a tough crowd at first, small and unamused. The band mach schaued for all they were worth, although in Pete’s case this didn’t amount to much more than trying to look _mean, moody, and mysterious_ , as Wooler used to say, in the back behind the drums. But John was doing his impressions, and Paul was hamming his way wildly through the lyrics, while George did mad jigs off to the side. Pete thought he could feel the crowd softening, although with the Germans it was always difficult to tell: like the band were transmitting on one frequency while the audience was picking up on a—  
  
“Cha-cha boom!”  
  
And there they went, off again in a mad dash, flying high up ahead, leaving Pete half a beat behind. Or he would have been, if they hadn’t played this song last night and the night before and the night before that . . .  
  
“So, besame, besame mucho. Love me forever, say that you’ll always be mine.” Paul was having a lot of fun tonight, with an impassioned mock-Spanish accent, his voice coming breathy and desperate on the ends of the lines. He and John were facing each other across the mic, leaning back as they threw themselves into the song, into making a show.  
  
“Oh, so dearest one . . .” Here, as the song started low and slowly got higher, they leaned closer and closer to each other with each line that Paul sang, eyes locked, both with challenging half-smiles on their faces, neither one wanting to back down before the other one did.  
  
“If you should leave me . . .” Closer. “Then each little dream will take wings . . .”  Closer. “And my life will be through . . .”    
  
Then, just as they were about to collide with the mic and with each other, the song took off again, and Paul, grinning, spun away to sing the last lines to the audience: “Oh, so besame, besame mucho. Now love me forever, make all my dreams come true. Ooh, love me forever, make all my dreams come true. Oooh, love me forever, make all my dreams come—”  
  
As Pete went into the final drum roll, he saw John grab the collar of Paul’s jacket, pull him as close as the two guitars between them would allow, and press his lips against Paul’s mouth, still slightly open on the last word of the song. The audience stomped and clapped and howled, finally won over. When John let him go, Paul threw his head back with laughter, sweat running down the side of his neck. They took an exaggerated bow, to the delight of the mob.  
  
Pete stared. The pills were one thing, but this was ridiculous. This was . . . this was John and Paul! They were mates, they were Scousers. For chrissakes, they were rockers! What the fuck did they think they were doing?   
  
“Eh, wipe that look off your face,” said George quietly from beside him, apparently not as far gone on the pills as he’d thought. “They’re just having a laugh, making a show. It’s mach schau, Pete. We’re not at the Casbah anymore, you know.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Pete muttered, looking at the sweaty faces around them, at the half-smile that still lurked in the corner of Paul’s mouth. Mach schau, right.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Livejournal as scarlettbat: https://johnheartpaul.livejournal.com/869442.html#cutid1


End file.
